


Captain America in a Universe that Almost Existed

by generalzero



Series: A Universe that Almost Existed [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst, Body Modification, Double Agents, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra are Nazis, Implied/Referenced Torture, Just So We're Clear, PTSD, Role Reversal, Spies, The Tesseract (Marvel), Villains to Heroes, WWII, War, adopted main character, all relationships are background only, anti-Semitism, complex antagonist, hastily done research, jewish main character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalzero/pseuds/generalzero
Summary: …in which the Red Skull is an under-appreciated double-agent who just can't manage to hate Steve Rogers.





	1. Double Agent

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the Red Skull is a good guy, but there will be none of this Hydra/Nazis-are-actually-good fuckery that Marvel comics has been publishing. Especially not now, in this political climate.
> 
> Uhh… I also accidently changed Schmidt's first name to Erik and I like it better that way so… *shrugs*
> 
> Please enjoy and leave comments!
> 
> Warning: lots of implied torture, PTSD, body-modification, Nazis, mentions of the camps & genocide, swearing, canon-typical violence
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything that Marvel came up with first and they can take my money any time they want.

 

"How do I know I can trust you?"

Erik sips his coffee and considers the scientist perched nervously in the opposite chair. Erik knows exactly what Erskine sees when he looks at him: it's the same image Erik has pruned and perfected for years for the benefit of his superiors. Erik Schmidt is a rising star in the Third Reich, an immaculately dressed SS officer with a track record of competence and unshakable faith in the _Führer_. Erik wouldn't trust himself either, if he were Erskine. It's not an uncommon method of testing loyalty, after all, for "Allied spies" to offer aid, escape and bribery to weak links.

Erik consciously cuts back the predatory glint in his cover's trademark expression. He sets down his coffee and leans closer to Erskine. _Trust me,_ screams his body language. "I've been given the authority to make whatever gestures of good faith you require. The Allies Strategic Science Reserve is very interested in your serum, Doctor."

"Everyone is," Erskine replies dryly.

" _We're_ willing to give you full funding and complete autonomy over the project to keep it out of Nazi hands. You choose everything from when testing happens to who gets tested on."

"As long as I let the Americans reap the results."

"Naturally," Erik nods. Erskine is not completely naive, which is good news. It makes Erik's job easier. He also keeps mistaking the SSR for a purely American agency rather than the joint-Allied one it is, but since most of the agency _are_ yankees Erik doesn't correct him.

Erskine sighs. "Captain, I would have kept it out of Nazi hands myself if it was possible. But Zola has his fingers in everybody's research, especially mine. There's probably copies under his damn pillow."

"That's no problem at all." In reply to Erskine's confusion, Erik simply raises his mug in a mock toast. "Haven't you heard the news? You're looking at the newly appointed second-in command of the Third-Reich's experimental science division. Zola's calling it Hydra, or some other mythic nonsense."

//=//

Erskine trusts him, Erik knows, or else he would not continue to accept Erik's invitations for coffee. The scientist is still nervous, however, and like all inventors very protective of his work. He needs a little push—a personal one, Erik suspects. Something to reassure him in the way political motives can't. So the next time they sit down for coffee, Eric brings a photograph.

It's creased and faded from being folded very small and hidden constantly. Erskine doesn't hesitate to pick it up and inspect it when Erik slides it across the table. His eyebrows crinkle together and paired with his round friendly face it makes him look rather like a puzzled teddy-bear. "Is this a bat-mitzvah?" he asks.

Erik closes his eyes; he can recall every detail of the photo without looking at it. "My sister's. By the time that was taken we were already having to hold them in secret. I joined the SS the year after. It was the only way I could think of to keep her and the rest o the family out of trouble."

Erskine glances between Eric and the family photo several times. "But you don't look—"

"—I don't look like a Jew because I was adopted," Erik interrupted mildly. "And I don't practice for obvious reasons."

"How have you kept them safe this long?" Erskine asks, with a touch of incredulity. It doesn't need to be said that by now there are very few Jews left in… well, neither of them are familiar with the horrible details. It's not their branch of the SS—Eichmann and his crowd are the ones busy implementing their chilling  _Endlösung_.

Erik's expression morphs from his usual sardonic mask to something more somber. He feels less need to rearrange his masks and censor himself with Erskine. "I haven't. They're dead."

Erskine nods slowly, as if he understands it was a foolish question. For a while he is quiet. Then he speaks, tone taking on a note of fatherliness that usually amuses Erik immensely but somehow doesn't right now. "So that's why you went to the Americans, then? You wanted revenge?"

Erik almost laughs. Instead he settles on a sour smile at the irony. "Doctor, if I wanted to avenge my family's deaths I would be working _against_ the Americans, not for them." At Erskine's nonplussed expression, Erik explains: "I made deal after deal to keep them in safe-houses and smuggle them out of Axis territory. Finally, the Americans agreed to arrange citizenship for them once I became their double agent."

Erik picks up the photograph, running his thumb over the worn edges. "But they were on the wrong ship, turned away at Ellis Island with over a thousand other refugees who then had no choice but to return to occupied territory. I didn't even hear about it until a month afterward, a month too late to do anything." Erik begins gently refolding the photograph as he speaks. "They said it was a mistake, that my family was supposed to be pulled off the ship before it was sent back. But the thing is"—Erik tucks the folded print back in its hiding place and looks Erskine directly in the eyes—"whether or not my family was on that ship, somebody's was. It shouldn't have been sent back."

Erskine is considering Erik closely, and Erik is fairly sure he's made the point he wanted by bringing the photograph. Their conversation took a more sincere turn than he had meant to, but Erik is nothing if not pragmatic and if it convinces Erskine it's worth it. Still, it's the first time he's told anyone or showed them the photograph and he's startled by how easy it was to share with Erskine.

"After all that, you're still fighting for the Americans?" Erskine finally says, surprising Erik further with a suspiciously testing tone.

Erik doesn't have to think about his answer. "No, Doctor. I'm fighting against _that_ "—he waves his hand at the large swaztika banner adorning his office wall—''There's a difference."

//=//

Erskine agrees to the SSR's proposal after that, and listens anxiously every time Erik updates him on the developing plan to get Erskine and his formula safely out of Germany. Erik can sympathize with his anxiety. Zola has been distracted lately by a new project—myths, Erik scoffs every time he thinks about it—but Zola's own superiors are getting more and more impatient with Erskine's stalling, They want results, a human test, and they have a number of fine young German soldiers lined up for him to pick from.

Erik has just finished briefing Erskine on the newly finished plan when Erskine suddenly derails the conversation with an unrelated question.

"How old are you, Schmidt?"

"Twenty-four."

"You look older."

"War will do that." Erik doesn't ask why Erskine wants to know; he simply attributes such questions to Erskine's misplaced fatherly instincts or to his inability as a scientist to leave any variable unknown. This time, however, Erskine seems to be getting at something.

"This plan, if it works—"

"It will work," Erik assures him. He and Colonel Phillips have ironed it out to the last detail now: Erskine will choose some poor Fritz from the German serum-hopefuls and Eric will head their escort to Zola's testing facility in Hydra's brand new secret base in Poland. Their escort will suffer a surprise ambush and the Allies will spirit Erskine away, while Erik continues on to the base and eradicates Zola's copies of the research there. Eric has been working for a month under the guise of tightening security to ensure that those copies will be the last ones.

"I trust you," Erskine says a tad impatiently. "But when it's all over, your superiors here are not going to be too pleased with you."

Ah, so Erskine has caught on to that little chink in the plan, has he? Erik shrugs. "If that's a euphemism for being court-martialed and shot, then you're right." Shot if he's lucky, Erik thinks privately.

"You're awfully calm about this." Erskine's voice leaks with concern. It's reasonable enough considering that Erik has become by default the scientist's only friend in a web of enemies, but Erik doesn't look forward to the task of placating him if Erskine intends to start trouble over it.

For now he keeps his tone mild, slightly flippant. "Would getting worked up about it help me at all? Or help you?"

"But aren't you a valuable asset?" Erskine protests, obviously smart enough to know an emotional argument will do nothing but still emotional enough to hope a flawed strategic one will work.

"Not as valuable as you." Erik has said as much to Col. Phillips when asked his opinion during their planning sessions. Carter shot Erik a look of sympathy when it became evident that they were planning a suicide mission but hadn't protested either. The Nazis cannot get its hands on Erskine's completed formula. Erik has already decided to cope by not thinking about it. Erik can tell Erskine is still chewing on the problem but he allows Erik to lead the conversation back to less important matters as they finish their coffee. Really, actual real coffee has to be the best perk of being an officer, in either army. Down on the front lines they're drinking mud. Mud and blood and shrapnel.

The next day Erskine contacts Erik and sounds more determined than Erik has yet heard him. "Schmidt, I have a idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandatory political note—fuck white supremacy and Nazis.
> 
> Endlösung refers to the Final Solution.
> 
> The refugee situation I included as Erik's backstory is unfortunately based on all-too-real history. Many—too many, as in more than zero—Jewish and other refugees were turned away from not just the good old US but other European countries and the UK in the beginning stages of the war, and ended up dead in the genocide.
> 
> I also name-dropped a real historical figure, Adolf Eichmann, an SS officer and bureaucrat who rose to become the leading organizer behind the implementation of Hitler's Final Solution. His story is morbidly fascinating, and if you are a history buff or at all concerned by recent currents events you should read the book on his trial by Hannah Arendt, The Banality of Evil.


	2. Enter the Yank

It's a dizzying high-wire balancing act of a plan that involves Erskine and Erik being "captured" by the Americans, Erik selling the story to the Nazis of a fake defection to the Allies, which makes Erik a double agent for both sides of the war—and frankly it all just gets more convoluted from there. Erik seriously doubts he could have pulled it off without a side of super-soldier serum to sweeten the deal.

Not that that anyone is pleased with the results of _that_. The Nazis are displeased that with Erskine safely in New York Erik is the only scrap of a chance they have left at his serum. The Allies are displeased that the serum is evidently still imperfect. Erskine is displeased because, as he phrases it later in the apology he insists on giving Erik, "I never stopped to think about whether the fact that I could do it necessarily meant I should."

Erik scoffs something to the effect that if Erskine had he probably wouldn't be a scientist in the first place, and takes care to repress as many side effects as he can while in his presence. No use in the old fellow feeling guilty.

Erik… Erik is not so displeased at the serum's results as he is at the fact that they have made his job infinitely harder. Not only do both sides now know he is a double agent, but neither seems to be quite sure whose agent he really is. It doesn't help that he's lost the cosmetic advantage he had as a fairly typical example of Hitler's prized _das Herrenvolk_ purity. Erik expects the derision and suspicion he receives from the Nazis; but from the Americans… it hurts more than he lets on. Both sides trust him less and give him less information, which impairs his performance and compounds the issue. It's a vicious circle that frustrates him to no end. Resentments starts to settle in his gut and harden into a cynicism that worries those people who do still trust him.

Not to mention, Zola is going fucking insane over this cube he's looking for…

"I don't like it, Colonel," Erik tells Phillips the day he and Zola get back from the expedition to retrieve the cube. He's just spent a week on the same train with the blasted thing and the uneasy prickle that still hasn't faded from the nape of his neck tells Erik that this thing is bad news. "We've only had it a week and it's already killed someone, a lieutenant who tried to touch it."

"Then I suggest you don't touch it, Captain," Phillips replies coolly, and Erik rolls his eyes out of the colonel's view. "Keep an eye on it and see what happens when Zola starts testing the thing. Project Rebirth is finally back on schedule; if the test next Tuesday goes well, in two months I'll send you a nice little squadron of super-soldiers to snatch the thing out from under Zola's nose."

//=//

Erik hears about Erskine's death a week after the fact (always too late, he thinks) from a Hydra briefing. He slips, like a goddamn rookie, snapping sharply at the unfortunate officer giving the report. "I never authorized that hit."

"I did," Zola cuts in smoothly, holding eye contact with Erik for just a touch too long as the subject of conversation changes. The cube is making Zola more paranoid by the day, and Erik can't seem to be in the room with either one without getting chills down his spine. He shows nothing though, not where anyone can see.

Escaping as soon as the meeting terminates, Erik finds himself fleeing to a dark corner of one of the base's nearby storage warehouses. He breathes deeply and tries to dispel the sudden dizziness he feels—it's one of the serum's more persistent side effects. He just needs to relax and let it pass until he can figure out a way to stop these random spells from happening. Usually their spontaneity frustrates him, but just now he's glad for the excuse to convince himself that he doesn't need the moment to stop and deal with Erskine's murder. It's got nothing to do with grief, _nothing_.

//=//

Things go quickly to shit after Zola perfects the first weapon prototypes using the cube's destructive power. The kind of shit that includes telling Hitler to go fuck himself and kidnapping nearly an entire regiment of American soldiers to experiment on. Erik makes the call to join Zola's little power trip: in Erik's opinion the cube and Zola are more dangerous than Hitler right now, if only because their unpredictability. The experiments on the 107th regiment are so bone-chilling that Erik considers—if only for a moment—breaking cover just to make it all _stop_ , so it's almost a relief when some crazy Yank storms the base single-handedly and rescues everyone. (In hindsight, Erik thinks, he should have guessed it was the famous Captain America; the kid had Erskine's idealism written all over him.) It's only _almost_ relieving however, because Erik _does_ have to keep cover. Improvising something theatrical to waste time until the collapsing structure justifies an escape without any actual engagement, Erik silently wishes the kid luck and heads with Zola to another base.

Eric is too preoccupied with the pace of current events and his own unanswered questions—wasn't Captain America just a publicity figure?—to notice that Zola's displeasure with him has reached a dangerous level. It's nearly a fatal mistake, and Erik has to use every trick in his arsenal to convince Zola of his complete loyalty to Hydra. Once Zola runs out of creative and unpleasant ways to express his displeasure and verify Erik's loyalty, he gives Erik a new mission:  
 _Kill Captain America._

As soon as Erik can plausibly get away with an absence, he slips across the front lines to the SSR's current base. He has passwords and signals and secret routes to get through safely, and furthermore under his disguise none of the Allied rank and file recognize him, so Erik is used to coming and going without incident. That, at least, is the excuse Erik has for why he gets ambushed the minute he arrives at HQ—by none other than Captain America.

The kid's got a mean swing, and Erik would know, since thanks to the serum his own swing is considerably meaner than the average soldier's. The new formula has obviously left Erik in the dust, however—or maybe he's still sluggish from Zola's ministrations. Either way, Erik puts up only enough fight to keep from being immediately knocked out; he's pleasantly surprised to note that Captain America steps off once he recognizes the surrender, although he's obviously still suspicious. Figures that Erskine would pick someone with a spot of honor.

"How did you get here?"

It's just Erik's luck that no one has bothered to inform the kid of the whole double-agent thing.

"Walked in the front door. Look, kid, you want to take me prisoner or something, that's swell. Just bring me to Col. Phillips first, okay?" Unfortunately the words don't exactly ingratiate Erik to the kid and they remain in a sort of hesitant standoff in the hallway until Agent Carter happens by and sorts everything out.

"God, Schmidt, what happened to you?"

"Zola," Erik says wearily. He's suddenly dying for a coffee to settle is nerves. Do the Allies still have coffee rations this close to the front? Erik doesn't remember. "Don't worry, my cover's still clean."

"It wasn't your cover I was worried about. Steve, you'll have to help me drag this fool to the infirmary. He puts up more of a fight than you do."

Good old Carter, Erik thinks. Cunning enough to make everyone focus on her lips and her lashes instead of realizing that 'nice girls' don't generally go in for military intelligence, let alone reach her rank—and still sweeter than apple pie. Right now Erik can't indulge her concern, however. He gently removes her hand from his arm, aware that if she wanted to she could use that grip to knock him on his back. "Nevermind that. I need to talk to Phillips. Now."

"Talk to me about what?"

All three of them jump, because damn if that man doesn't spring out of nowhere every chance he gets. Erik is convinced Phillips does it purposefully.

"Hydra has split from Nazi leadership," Erik says without preamble, "And Zola's building weapons."

Phillips look surprised and concerned at the first bit of information but largely unaffected by the second. After all, Erik's been updating him on the progress of the Hydra prototypes for months now. Erik had reacted the opposite way when first confronted with the new developments: he'd seen Zola's megalomania growing and knew it had to find an outlet sooner or later, so the split was less of a surprise than what Zola is choosing to do with his new autonomy. Super-powered sub-machine guns apparently aren't enough for the mad scientist. Erik tries to explain.

"It's the second part that should worry you. These weapon are _huge_. They're…"—Erik struggles to find words for the magnitude of the plans he's seen—" _One_ of them will make the _Blitz_ look like a rain-shower. And Zola doesn't intend on stopping at one."

//=//

"So what do you think of Steve?" Carter asks later, after they've sorted out a battle strategy and Rogers is off recruiting his strike-team. Erik and Carter are sitting on a cold stone wall overlooking the base, outside despite the chill for the sake of some peace and quiet--meaning coffee and cigarettes.

"I think someone has a crush," Eric says dryly. It's been a depressing length of time since he's talked to anyone he'd consider a friend, and he can't help but tease her.

Carter explodes with satisfying indignation. "I do not! Honestly, just because I'm a woman everyone—wait—what are you laughing for?"

"Well, I _was_ talking about Rogers, but if the shoe fits…" Erik shrugs.

"You ass." Carter shoves him lightly in the shoulder.

Erik takes another long sip of his expensive Brazilian coffee (god bless Howard Stark) to match Carter's long drag on her cigarette. He mulls over his observations of Rogers, settling on an appropriate comeback, then says casually: "You might have some competition from that Barnes fellow, though."  
Carter nearly chokes, and it's a wonder she doesn't swallow her cigarette. "What?!"

Erik puts on a reproachful tone. "Why Margaret Carter, I thought you were a modern, progressive woman. Don't tell me you've never heard of folks who swing both ways." He pauses, then plays his final jab: "Or is it that you didn't expect you sweetheart to?"

Carter surrenders with a glare and then hides her blush like a good spy. Erik's given her something to chew on, certainly. Done teasing, he moves on to her original question. "I think Rogers is adorably optimistic and dangerously naive. He's got the potential to be really competent, both as a figurehead and a soldier. I don't know if it's the publicity training or something he had when Erskine picked him up but the kid is down right contagious. You know, he's even got me believing we can win the war."

Carter squeezes Erik's hand. "We can win this, Schmidt," she tells him earnestly.

Erik can tell he's not the only one Rogers has inspired, but it's all a touch too sentimental for him to tolerate so he rolls his eyes and says: "You have such a crush on him."

After crossing back over the front line and reporting for duty to Hydra once again, Erik ignores the coffee stain—from being elbow-checked backwards off a stone wall with his mug in his hand—that won't come completely out of his worn field coat and pretends it doesn't remind him of what he's missing, here on the wrong side of the lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Mandatory political note--fuck white supremacy and Nazis. Also, smoking's not cool, kids.
> 
> das Herrenvolk refers to the Nazi concept of a master race.
> 
> "If the shoe fits, wear it." is a phrase my grandmother taught me and is the 1940s meme for "Congratulations, you played yourself."
> 
> So Steve is queer. Bucky is queer. Peggy is queer. Everyone is fucking queer bc I'm done being subtle in my representation. Peggy is surprised not by the idea of Steve being queer but because her gaydar apparently failed her. Just so we're clear.
> 
> I'm almost but not really sorry about the level of salt in this fic, so…
> 
> Fun fact for yall--Erik has a hard time describing Hydra's tesseract-style A-bombs because the term Weapons of Mass Destruction was not coined/commonly used until after the introduction and use of the first atomic bombs. Until this point in history the closest things humanity had to such massively efficient killing were chemical weapons (see WWI and mustard gas) and aerial bombardment like the London Blitz.


	3. Putting on a Show

Captain Rogers and Captain Schmidt become two sides of the same coin, spinning a victory for the Allies regardless of who lands face up on a particular day. Every time Captain America carries the battle it puts them one step closer to Zola and the cube; every time he narrowly "escapes" the Red Skull (Erik rolls his eyes every time he sees the moniker in the papers) it buys them a little bit more time to keep the show rolling—and a show it is, since inevitably the two of them must have believable public skirmishes. Rogers, with his so-called theatre experience and natural charisma, may even be slightly better at it, Eric thinks. They dance across Europe, stepping from Hydra factory to armory cache to prison camp as quickly as they can without spooking Zola into taking off with the cube or blowing Eric's cover. The Allies are slowly but surely seizing all of the assets Zola needs to construct his weapons.

Of course, things don't go as smoothly as they look on the surface. Everything has to be choreographed ahead of time with Phillips and the rest the SSR, from details like how long Captain America needs to "recover" after a loss to the Red Skull to more thorny issues like deciding what parts of Erik's intelligence they can act on and what parts they have to ignore to keep his cover believable. That's usually where arguments start.

Rogers may be the perfect soldier, and a hero to boot, but he's a terrible, terrible spy. No mater how many times Col. Phillips, Erik and even Carter explain to him that the causalities they are forced to allow for the sake of preserving their most reliable source of intelligence are far less than the casualties would be without that intelligence, Rogers refuses to accept the compromise and move on. In every single strategy session he fights to have just one more win, spare one more battalion. Erik would attribute it to some absurd streak of competitiveness if it were anyone other than stupid, selfless, perfect Steve Rogers. No, Rogers just wants to save everyone, and in his naivety and security as a true-blue superhero, he thinks he can. It gives Erik a headache.

"You can't just play God like this, choosing who gets to live and who gets to die!"

"Rogers, if I were God, I'd send a flood and be done with it all. But since neither of us invincible nor omnipotent this is how it has to be."

(There is also the small problem of Rogers' unshakable loyalty, faith and optimism clashing with Erik's fatalistic, irreverent cynicism. Needless to say, the two rub each other the wrong way more often than not.)

It would be easier for Erik if he were able to truly dislike Rogers; Erik could roll his eyes and internally write him off like he does the sneering denouncements in the papers and people like the medics who look anywhere but at his monstrous face even as they treat him. Count on Erskine to find someone impossible to hate for the gift of perfection… It's not that Erik is jealous—whenever his thoughts wander to what could have been if he'd gotten the perfected version of the serum, Erik reminds himself that he'd still be a cynical bastard and leaves the idea to moulder alone—it's just that life would be easier if there weren't so much to be jealous of.

//=//

Hydra has just lost yet another weapons factory to Captain America and the Howling Commandos; Zola's getting jumpy and HQ decides that the Red Skull needs to give Captain America a very public smack-down to lull him back to complacency. So Rogers and Erik oblige with a small scale battle a stone's throw away from a contested city on the front lines. The Red Skull ambushes Captain America and the Howling Commandos with a squad of Hydra troops right by the river. The Commandos take on the Hydra soldiers while Rogers and Erik stage a very impressive (if a bit muddy) fight on the water's edge. If there are any reporters worth a cent in the whole city, they'll catch the whole thing from a safe distance.

The thing about war, though, is that things almost never go according to plan.

Erik is already off his game when the fight starts; he's stressed from tiptoeing around Zola and the side-effects from the serum have been acting up more often lately. It only takes one lucky shot from Rogers's shield to send Erik staggering to his knees, head spinning. Erik tries to get up, to focus, but there are shooting pains in his bones and now he's somehow let go of his gun and he's already trying to come up with an explanation to placate Zola for the fiasco this is going to turn into and this just serves to make him even dizzier…

"Schmidt, Schmidt. You're supposed to be clobbering me, remember? Schmidt! Are you alright?"

There's a supporting pressure around Erik's shoulders and Erik hopes Rogers is taking care to how this looks.

"Schmidt!"

"Serum," Erik finally chokes out.

There's a pause, then Rogers says, "I guess we're going for a swim," and pulls them both into the water and lets the current sweep them away.

By the time Erik's world has stopped rolling around enough for him to pull his own weight, Rogers has dragged him several miles downriver. They peel themselves up onto the bank and Erik alternates between shaking the water out of his coat and rubbing the tension out of his neck, while Rogers digs out his thankfully-still-working comm (God bless Howard Stark).

"We have to figure out what to tell—" Erik begins, voice a bit hoarse.

"Shhh! You!" Rogers interrupts sharply. "Stop thinking about strategy for one minute and relax before you pass out or something. Just—just sit down and breathe, okay? I got this."

Too tired to argue, Erik does as he's told. He listens quietly as Rogers hails Barnes on the comm. "…we're both fine, Buck. Mop up the rest of Hydra and then make a big deal of looking for me, okay? You and, say, Falsworth, can swear to God and any reporters that you saw Schmidt clean my clock and dump me in the river before strutting off. And you're all very cut up about it. I left my shield on the bank, so you can grab it. I'll meet you at Fallback B after dark. I'll explain to Phillips when I get back…"

Rogers, Erik thinks, is missing out on an excellent career as a politician. He knows exactly how to spin something grand out of nothing.

All too soon Rogers has wrapped it up with Barnes and is hunkering down next to Erik on a dry patch of grass further up the bank. "So…"

Erik resists the childish urge to growl. Instead he looks out over the water with tired eyes. "If I say it's just combat fatigue will you let it go?"

"Nope," Rogers says, popping the p and reminding Erik that this kid is only 20 years old. "You said it was the serum anyway."

Erik sighs. He's mostly fine now, save for a thundering headache. "Not much to it, Rogers. You already know the serum wasn't ready when Erskine gave it to me. I've got a lot more unpleasant symptoms than you do. Or did you think my charming complexion was all?"

Rogers shrugs. His posture is the complete opposite of Erik's: he's leaning back on his elbows, body alert but open, and he looks at Erik when he speaks. Erik is curled into a guarded hunch, gaze raking everything except his companion. Rogers says: "Not really, but Phillips kinda gave the impression anything serious had worn off a while back."

"That's because as far as he's concerned it has," Erik says sternly. "It only comes back when things get too… intense." Erik's hand ghosts up to his left shoulder, at the crook of his neck, where Rogers's shield had struck him. "And I think you hit me in a bad spot, jarred a nerve."

"Sorry," Rogers apologizes instantly.

Erik shrugs. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. You didn't just completely fuck up a mission."

"Hey, no harm done. I can pretend to be drowned for a few days until Zola gets the latest chip off his shoulder and I'll make a miraculous recovery in time for the next target you've got lined up for us. In the meantime, you should relax, you hear?"

Erik throws Rogers a doubting look. "Relax, in the middle of a war?"

"You cant be strategizing all the time you know? You've got to take a step back and remind yourself what you're fighting for."

Erik blinks. The statement sounds like something too old to be coming out of the mouth of someone who still likes to pop their p's, but it also somehow sounds very much like Rogers. And very true. "Wise words, kid. But I don't see you applying to Phillips for leave to go back to New York City and relax."

"That's different. I've got Bucky and Peggy and the guys, but you, you're—" Rogers stops abruptly, biting his lip as if to bite back the insensitivity.

It doesn't take a genius to fill in the missing word.

Neither of them catch each other's eye for a moment, before Erik rescues the situation with the first banality that comes to mind. "You know, I've never actually been to the States. Sometimes I think I'd like to go, see what all the ruckus is about. Too bad I'd stand out too much."

Rogers's reply is a bright-eyed apple pie smile. "You should! There's so much to visit: I was on tour constantly for half a year and I didn't see the half of what America has to offer," he says enthusiastically. "Definitely do New York first though," Rogers adds, tone softening fondly over the syllables of his hometown. It makes him seem a look younger. "And believe me, there are at least a few neighborhoods in Brooklyn where I can assure you no one will look at you twice."

As Rogers regales Erik with anecdotes of Brooklyn's not-so-secret queer joints, waterfront weirdos in Long Island, and adventures into Harlem, Erik thinks to himself that Steve Rogers is much less annoying than Captain America, so much so that he can kind of see why Carter is falling in love with him.

//=//

Erik Schmidt is starting to believe that they're going to win the war; that thoughts about leaving behind Europe, choked with memories and battlefields, to explore the States aren't just idle fantasies; that there's something to look forward to.

The thing about war, though, is that things almost never go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandatory political note—fuck white supremacy and Nazis.
> 
> So "combat fatigue" was the term used in the WW2 era to refer to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in veterans and was generally associated with jumpiness and panic attacks. My research isn't exhaustive: it's possible that "combat fatigue" was coined just after the war, in which case the term used should have been "shell-shock", referring to the trauma WW1 veterans developed in the trenches as a result of constant bombardment from aerial "shells". Anyway, Erik probably does have combat fatigue at this point but the particular symptoms he's trying to cover up are due to the serum not working right for him.
> 
> As for Steve's claims about New York: 1940s Brooklyn, Harlem and other waterfront communities were pretty lit and had thriving pocket of queer and trans community. (I'm too lazy to cite.) As for whether the Red Skull could blend in… Marvel comics canon has *everything* happen in New York City. I'm sure there are plenty of vintage mutants, villain and vigilantes roaming around.


	4. The Wrong Guy Dies

They have an unbelievable stroke of luck: Zola is retreating, with the cube, to Hydra's last bastion in the alps, where his super weapons are nearing completion. He's going to be on a guarded train for thirty hours and part of it will be spent in unprotected territory—in other words, it's a chance to capture Zola and the cube and put an end to everything.

Except it's not.

Erik realizes something is wrong when Zola does not show up to the heavily-guarded Hydra-controlled train station. Instead there are several dozen more soldiers than planned and a note from Zola. It's in the usual code Zola uses in his correspondence but with a small variation. Deciphering it is a distraction which costs Erik precious seconds, seconds in which the Hydra soldier surround him.

The note reads: _Dearest Captain Schmidt, I regret to inform you that I have already departed with the Cube on a different train. I am very grateful to know, however, that with you aboard, this decoy will no doubt fulfill it's purpose perfectly. Give my regards to Captain America. Hail Hydra!_

Erik crumples the note in his fist, and because he has the sense that his next words will probably be his last, he says two he's been saving up for a long time: "Fuck Hydra."

//=//

Erik wakes up not dead in an extremely cold train car, bound tight and surrounded by half a squad of rather nervous Hydra soldiers. Their nervousness is probably due to the sounds of a firefight working its way up the train towards them. As devoted as they are, Hydra's rank and file gossip has inflated Captain America's abilities to a near god-like level and Erik has smugly refrained from disillusioning them. None of them is bright enough to think of holding Erik hostage, so Rogers is able to barrel in a like a cannonball while somebody slips in the back end of the car and covers him. Erik winces as a bullet zings close by his head and wills himself to trust Barnes's aim. (It must be Barnes with Rogers; they never pair with anyone else.) After a minute or two the car is cleared and Erik lets out a breath of relief.

Rogers gives him a nod in greeting, as if they meet like this all the time. "Schmidt."

"It's a trap," Erik says flatly.

"We kind a noticed that, what with the ambush and all." The voice belongs to Barnes, whom Erik can feel behind him undoing the thick cords—meant to hold a superhuman—keeping him still.

"Which car are Zola and the cube in? We haven't found them yet," Rogers asks.

"No, no. The whole thing is a set up. Zola and the cube are on a completely different train." Erik growls, unable to completely reign in his disgust with himself for somehow tipping off Zola and his frustration at his current helplessness.

Rogers frowns. "Then why put you on this one? Zola knows if he wants to take us out he needs more soldiers than this…"

"A bomb on the tracks, or train," Barnes volunteers. "Same way he got the 107th. The cannon fodder must be to keep us busy until the blast hits."

Rogers swears lightly and then immediately orders a retreat on the comms.

"Look on the bright side, Schmidt." Barnes grins at Erik as he works at the cords. "No more boot-licking for you! You can come out in the open and kick Zola's ass with us."

Erik will never admit it to anyone, but Barnes is his favorite out of all Rogers's entourage. Erik can count on his fingers the people who don't flinch when running into him unawares, and Barnes is one of them. Flashing the man a rare smile, he says: "Looking forward to it."

"Do you hear that?" Rogers says suddenly.

Erik shakes his head at the same time Barnes says, "No… We got someone sneaking up?"

Rogers gives a nod to Barnes that must speak volumes in best-friend code, because Barnes pauses momentarily with the last of Erik's knots to make sure his gun is primed and close. Rogers creeps toward the back of the car as Barnes works furiously to finish untying Erik. Keeping still, Erik strains to hear what could have tipped Rogers off. Theoretically Erik should have the same enhanced hearing Rogers does, but it turns out that not having outer ears significantly decreases hearing ability—Erik picks up the noise only a second or so before Barnes does: a low metallic whine paired with heavy footsteps.

Taking the last of the knots from Barnes with his newly freed hands, Erik gestures for him to back up Rogers. Working quickly, Erik frees himself and liberates a Hydra weapon from one of the dead soldiers. He turns in time to see the hind car door seize shut in Barnes's face, separating the both of them from Rogers in the back car.

"Steve!" Barnes shouts, giving the door an unsuccessful shove. The high-powered whine is clearly audible now, and from Rogers's car they can hear the thundering sounds of Hydra fire.

Instinct or paranoia makes Erik turn to check their six, the opposite end of the car—just in time to spot two soldiers in metal armor suits entering through the open door. Reacting with superhuman speed to preserve his split-second advantage, Erik raises his own weapon and fires at the control pad next to the door. It zings closed, locking one of the soldiers out, for now. Two of them against one of Hydra are the kind of odds Erik prefers; Rogers has got a monopoly on sportsmanship anyway.

As Erik dodges the remaining soldier's answering shot, his mind races. Where did they come from? Why has Erik never seen designs for those arm cannons they're wearing? How long and how much has Zola been hiding from him?

Barnes covers Erik as he retreats towards the back of the car. They have zero experience fighting with each other and almost none play-fighting against each other, but Barnes apparently has great intuition and better reflexes because they take out the armored soldier before it lands a scratch on either of them. Erik wonders briefly if watching Rogers's back has acclimatized Barnes to keeping up with superhumans. If Erskine wasn't—if Barnes had the serum, the pair of them would be nigh unstoppable. Maybe it would be worth it to let the eggheads try again with their endless needles and x-rays, Erik mused, if it could get Rogers a team that could keep up with him. It wasn't like Erik had any other usefulness now that his cover was blown…

Except that just like every other time Erik has allowed himself to hope for something, the floor is suddenly ripped from under him. Because between Erik, Rogers and Barnes, it just has to be Barnes, the only one of them who can't shake off a point blank Hydra blast, who ends up facing down an arm cannon with nothing but a shield in front and a thousand foot drop behind. No matter how many time Erik replays the events in his head, he can't keep track of how things got from the Point A of him and Barnes forcing the door to the Point B of Rogers clinging to the side of the speeding train with wide eyes—eyes Erik has seen in a lot of folks who will never see the world the same way again. Maybe some part of Erik doesn't want risk remembering something that will prove it was all his fault. Surely Erik could have done something? Or is he truly destined to be always too late?

After a moment of shock, Erik staggers to his feet and to the ragged edge of the hole in the car; he hold out a hand to the precariously perched Rogers, but the young man doesn't respond. "Rogers. Rogers, come on. You have other soldiers to look after. We have to get of the train."

Captain America climbs back into the car without taking Erik's hand.

//=//

Col. Phillips is pissed. The Commandos are in shock. Rogers is off somewhere trying to get drunk. Carter is running around trying to comfort everyone. Erik has been stuck in briefings explaining and justifying every single action he's taken in the last six months that could have lead Zola to suspect him. The weirdness of being in HQ, surrounded by Allies day in and day out, very quickly turns into a kind of suffocation. Erik is not an independent operative anymore; nobody seems to be sure what purpose he serves now that his usefulness as a spy has expired. Captain America needs a new second for his strike team, but…

Everyone knows it's Erik's fault. Carter and Rogers are the only ones to deny it, and Rogers only because he has bizarrely decided to blame himself.

"There's nothing you could've done," Carter insists. "It could have been any of the three of you who fell."

It may be true, Erik thinks, but it doesn't change the fact that things would have been simpler all around if Erik had been the one to tumble out of the train and over a cliff.

//=//

When Erik finally decides he has had enough of all this grief and foolishness, he goes to find Rogers. The man's drawing, with a level of talent Erik didn't know Rogers had, but it's a healthier coping mechanism that wasting liquor and Erik has more pressing matters on his mind, so he doesn't comment.

"Zola wouldn't have set me up for execution unless he felt he had a very secure advantage," Erik says without preamble.

Rogers seems surprised to see Erik but doesn't take much prompting to jump to the right conclusion: "You think he's farther along with the super weapons than he's let on?"

Erik nods. "I think that the minute he hears that you and I are not dead, he's gonna take the most drastic measures he has. Zola may be a genius but he's also a coward who knows he's cornered."

"The Swiss base is the last one Hydra has with the capacity for a large scale attack." Rogers sets his pad and pencil down. "If he panics, that's where he'll do it."

They take the idea to Phillips, who, after some persuasion, agrees with their assessment. He insists, however, that they need more time to plan an infiltration of the well-defended Hydra base—time they don't have.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Col. Phillips growls at the two of them, clearly pissed at being ganged up on by his two least obedient agents. "Just walk in there and bang down the front door?"

There's a beat—Rogers sends Erik a scheming look, and Erik gets just a faint taste of what Rogers's and Barnes's silent best-friend-language must have been like—then Rogers says: "Why not?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandatory political note--fuck white supremacy and Nazis.
> 
> Bucky will reappear a la the Winter Soldier later in this series. Erik will likely be equally as stupid about him as Steve is in canon.


	5. What You're Fighting For

The plan is almost entirely Rogers's idea, and for once, Erik doesn't feel the need to force any changes to optimistic, do-or-die yankee stubbornness underlying it. Saving the world from Blitzkrieg annihilation, after all, is not a situation that allows for much cynicism. Either the plan goes fabulously and they destroy all of Zola's weapons, or—well, that's just the thing, isn't it? There's simply no option for failure at this point. If even one of those missiles reaches its destination…

So when the Howling Commandos banter and tease in the pre-battle euphoria that barely covers their nerves, asking Erik where his dour pessimism has gone, the most fatalistic sentiment Erik can conjure for the sake of humoring them is a half-hearted assertion that while they'll make the strangest bunch of martyrs the world has ever seen. It gains him some chuckles and an appreciative slap on the back from the soldiers.

Rogers, on the other hand, is wearing the same sober determination Erik is, although with Rogers's humble boyish grace Erik supposes the sentiment looks far more heroic on the younger man. Both of them have the weight of the world pressing their shoulders and the fate of it trembling in their hands.

Rogers catches Erik in a quiet moment amongst the nervous chaos. He sends a brief but meaningful look at Erik's hands-both tucked securely in his pockets. "You doing alright?"

Erik does not answer the unspoken question of whether Erik's serum is acting up—the reason his ever-so-slightly-trembling hands are in his pockets—because Phillips has just come in the room with Carter. "Don't worry about it, kid. I've got your six."

Then, because Erik doesn't have the time or energy for the concern that flickers in Rogers's eyes, he adds, "Carter's probably got something to say to you; she just came in."

Rogers doesn't need to be told twice; Erik rolls his eyes and thinks to himself that if Rogers doesn't kiss Carter soon she's going to take matters into her own hands—and Carter doesn't do things half-assed.

The Commandos have a betting pool on for the two of them, and Erik only refrains from sweeping in and liberating all of their money because Rogers' sportsmanship is apparently rubbing off on him. Erik, after all, is the one who had to restrain Carter from raining ruin down on the base quartermaster who rudely and publicly refused her discrete request for standard-issue rubbers. (Is teaming up with Stark to get her some ridiculous eleven-inch "Yankee-mediums" in somewhat bad taste? Probably. Does the memory keep Erik from strangling Zola on a bad day? _Definitely._ ) Erik knows just how far gone the two of them are for each other.

…aaaand Rogers doesn't kiss her. What an idiot. Carter's coming in the field this time, too, and however much Erik respects her skills he can still all-too-vividly recall Barnes's death and the devastation Hydra weapons can wreak on the average human body. Roger's can't have forgotten either, can't be unaware that if things do not go exactly to plan there will be no time in the coming hours for goodbyes or confessions… Can he? He's still just a kid, despite the sobriety wartime has tacked onto his twenty years.

With a sigh, Erik silently tells himself he's grown as sentimental as Erskine was.

//=//

As attractive as the idea is, overpowering the Swiss base, even with Captain America leading the charge, is simply not possible. The SSR has too few resources, and sending non-SSR-trained troops up against Hydra is just asking for a slaughter. So the plan relies instead on one last charade: reckless, heroic Captain America storming the Swiss castle only to be betrayed by the scheming Red Skull.

Erik jumps his cue, so to speak, deviating from the plan in order to surprise Rogers, who can lie with his lips but not for the life of him lie with his eyes. Taking advantage of an skirmish with a squad of elite Hydra agents, Erik bats Roger's shield off it's return course to its wielder, causing it to ricochet away. The flash of uncertainty across Roger's face when Erik aims his weapon at him is real, even if the cause is not what Zola will—hopefully—assume it is.

"I think, Rogers, it is time for you to surrender." Erik says for the benefit of the surrounding Hydra agents and whatever hidden cameras Zola is watching from. Silently, he wills Rogers to play his part.

"But you… You couldn't have been lying all this time. We saved your life, Schimdt!" Rogers growls in passable mock anger.

Erik shrugs. "It's not my fault you're a fool." Good job, kid.

//=//

The Hydra officers capturing them not-too-long-ago took orders directly from Erik, so with the combination of old habit and 'clear evidence' Erik's loyalties, it's not difficult to get an escort straight to Zola. Erik gives the bemused mastermind a "Hail Hydra!" in greeting, and uses Zola's delight at finally having Captain America in his grasp to smooth over his transition back to loyal Hydra agent. Finally they get the story, delivered in a victorious monologue, of what Zola has been planning being Erik's back: perfecting the cube's power, transcending humanity, culling the unworthy, world domination, etc. Most important, however, are the details of his planned aerial bombardment of every major power in the world, starting with the United States.

And when Zola boasts that his missiles are "primed and ready to carry out their glorious purpose" that apparently means the launch sequence is _literally in progress right now._

//=//

Erik would really like to shoot the megalomania right off Zola's face with one of his own weapons but the departing jet full of doomsday missiles takes higher priority, so he and Rogers leave Zola for the arriving reinforcements and fight their way to the _Valkyrie_ 's hangar. Unfortunately, it's already speeding down the runway when they catch up, and though Rogers keeps running—of course he doesn't give up, he's _Steve fucking Rogers_ —Erik has to stop. He can feel the panic wrapping around his chest and his bones are screaming _too late_ again.

That's when he hears the purr of Zola's insufferably flashy car behind him. "Get in!" Phillips orders.

They catch up to Rogers in a manner of seconds and don't slow down—Erik leans out the side of the car and hauls him inside. The fact that the kid lands on Carter's lap is purely coincidence, ahem, they're trying to save the world right now and Erik's priorities are right where they should be, thank you very much. The race to the jet ends with (surprise) a kiss for Rogers from Carter and (actual surprise) one on the cheek for Erik—along with the stern command: "Bring yourselves home."

"Yes, ma'am," Erik promises, and dives after Rogers.

//=//

Ten minutes later the _Valkyrie_ is theirs, her accompanying squadron of Hydra elites proving no match for Captain America and the Red Skull.

They stand still for a moment after the last enemy combatant is down, back to back, until Rogers breaks the silence. "Is that it? Did we actually just win the war?"

Erik glances at Rogers, and at the unlaunched missiles with their destinations painted cheekily along the sides: New York, Boston, Chicago. "Well, there's the rest of the Axis, but… yeah. I think we just lopped the last head off of Hydra."

—and just like that, Erik is suddenly exhausted, like the last seven years have finally managed to catch up to him now that the worst of it is over.

Rogers, on the other hand, seems to gain a second wind. He grins, drops his defensive stance, and claps Erik on the back with an enthusiasm that joins forces with Erik's exhaustion to make him stumble a bit. "We did it!"

"Yeah, yeah, go easy on the celebrations there, kid. I'm not as spry as you."

"You are only five years older than me, stop playing the sober old man card." Rogers says, giving him a friendly eye-roll. He seems to pick up on the tell-tale tremble in Erik's hands, though, and his tone becomes less boisterous. "Take a rest, Schmidt. I'll bring us down."

Erik gratefully sinks down in the most comfortable spot he can find and keeps a suspicious eye on the machine housing the cube. (He'd rip the damn thing open and throw the cube into the void if he didn't suspect it was somehow powering the plane.) It's over. Erik lets out a breath he's been holding since he joined the SS. Of course there's still the camps, still people whose lives are at stake, Jews and _goyim_ alike, and it will be years before Erik can set foot in Berlin again, but right now—just for a moment—Erik feels like he's done enough, that he's done something that matters. Maybe he'll ask Phillips for leave, get Rogers or Stark to show him around New York. (With Rogers he'll meet more interesting people, and with Stark there will be un-rationed coffee. It's a toss up.)

Rogers is at the pilot's station, hailing Phillips on the radio. Erik listens to the report with minimal interest until—

"What do you want us to do with the cube, sir?" Rogers asks.

"Don't touch it," comes the order crackling over the radio. "Just bring it home safe. We'll have the science division ready to figure out transportation when you get here."

Erik is up and leaning into the comm array before Rogers can move on. "But what is going to happen to it?" he asks, uneasy.

"There's still a lot of war left to fight, boys. The Japs are kicking our asses on the Pacific front, and Hitler's still advancing towards Russia. We'll find a use for it. Stark is practically drooling already."

With every word, Erik's heart drops further. He barely hears the rest of the conversation.

"Rogers," Erik says heavily after the connection with Phillips closes, "we can't bring back the cube." _Please,_ Erik prays, _let him get it. Let him understand. Let his stupid idealism go my way for once…_

"Why not?"

The disappointment bursts out of Erik before he can martial a more considered argument: "Why not? You heard why not! They're going to make more weapons with the damn thing is why not."

Rogers frowns. "That's not what Phillips said."

"Oh come on, you're not that naive," Erik sneers. Rogers bites his lip and Erik knows he's scored a point. The concession allows Erik to calm down and press the point intelligently. "You heard Phillips: they're giving it to Stark. I wouldn't let that man touch the cube with a ten meter pole, and I like Stark. Think of how many other scientists we don't know will be crawling all over it."

For a moment Erik thinks the point went home, but Rogers just crosses his arms and says, skeptically: "So you think _we_ should decide who gets to use it?"

Not this argument again. Erik is not trying to play god; he's trying to stop everyone else from doing so. "I don't think _anyone_ should get to use it! You haven't seen the effect it has on people, even without weaponizing it. It's dangerous."—Erik gestures to the line of missiles nestled in the belly of the plan—"and it makes weapons that can destroy _entire_ _cities_."

"But we'll be using it against the Axis, not the Allies."

Erik actually can't speak for a moment. He _knows_ Rogers: the kid is sweet, he's not a bigot, he's just stupid, he can't have meant that the way it sounded…

"And that makes it alright?" Erik chokes out. "If we change the names on those missiles to Berlin, Tokyo and Rome, that's okay for you?" For the first time since Erik became a spy and the _Sicherheitsdienst_ officers drilled perfection into his English, Erik can hear his accent coming through.

It's a relief when Rogers blanches. "No! Stop twisting my words. I don't think we should bomb anyone."

"Then you agree we need to destroy the cube before anyone else gets their hands on it." How exactly to destroy the cube is a plan Erik has not formed yet, and the ideas the come to mind in the brief moment he considers the problem seem laughably inadequate.

"That's not what I said either." Rogers puts a hand on Erik's shoulder. "You're not with Hydra anymore, Schmidt, you don't have to mistrust every person you meet."

Erik pulls away from Rogers, standing up straight. "What. Is that. Supposed. To mean."

This is not paranoia. This is not about Erik being a spy. This is about apathy and temptation and what is right. Rogers had better put that soothing tone right back where it came from or so help him Erik is going to--

"We won't use the cube to make bombs," Rogers says perfectly sincerely. "You can trust the Allies; they'll do the right thing."

There's a creased photo burning a hole in one of Erik's secret pockets. It's hot enough that Erik marvels he hasn't spontaneous burst into flame.

When Erik can finally speak without running the risk of screaming, he says, evenly: "What are you fighting for?"

Erik's long silence has rattled Rogers; the change in topic startles him. "What?"

"Why did you want to join the war, Rogers?" It's never come up, but Erik has heard enough grumbling from Phillips to understand that before Project Rebirth Rogers was not a natural soldier.

Rogers has an answer almost immediately: "Because I don't like bullies."

Erik blinks. "Because you don't like bullies."

Rogers nods. "Because I don't like bullies." He appears to be taking the question seriously, and if the response is odd it at least sounds completely sincere. Now that Erik thinks about it he can see the logic, see it in Rogers's endless insistence on defending the defenseless even at the cost of the mission.

"So you're not fighting for your country," Erik offers slowly, trying to set up the same point for Rogers that Erik explained to Erskine so long ago. "You joined so you could stop bullies from preying on weaker people."

"Well, those are the same thing," Rogers says, immediately and easily. Erik wonders what kid of blessed life this kid has led that his own government has never served him an injustice.

"No, they are _not_ the same thing."

Rogers sighs, clearly humoring what he considers a semantic argument. "Fine. I'm fighting for my country _and_ against bullies."

"And what if America was the bully? What would you do then?" _Please let him get it. Let him understand. Let his stupid idealism go my way for once…_

"But they're not," Rogers counters.

"But what if they were?"

"I know what you're trying to do here, Schmidt, and it's not going to work." Rogers crosses his arms, and damn it Erik hasn't really thought about how fond he is of the kid until right now, when his heart breaks just a little at Rogers's next words: "We're taking the cube back to Col. Phillips."

Erik closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what is to come.

"Rogers, I'm going to tell you this once: stay out of my way."

//=//

It turns out that taking on Captain America is a really bad idea. In the past, there were bets made and sparring matches had for the sake of studying the serum, and the clear consensus on the matter was that Rogers could hopelessly outclass anyone in a one-on-one fight—including Erik, who had a generally equal ability to weather a battering, but could not match Rogers ability to _keep on_ battering away indefinitely. Eventually, Rogers always won.

He's winning now, and Erik is almost desperate for a way to end the fight before he runs out of steam. He doesn't have much in the first place, not after storming the base and clearing the plane of Hydra agents. Not to mention the fact that Erik really, really doesn't want to hurt Rogers. That doesn't mean Erik's not fighting dirty, but he can't bring himself to follow through on the blows that would do serious damage. As if that isn't enough, Rogers can clearly tell Erik is pulling his punches.

"Schmidt, I don't want to fight. _You_ don't want to fight. Just stand down."

Erik is not letting that cube leave this plane.

"You know you can't match me. _Please_ stand down."

All Rogers has to do is let Erik wail on him until Erik tires out and makes a mistake, and they both know it. Erik needs something to give him an advantage, _now_. The pilot's station catches his eye.

Throwing Rogers into the plane's throttle and sending the plane into a tailspin is also a really bad idea in hindsight, the but the resulting low-gravity shenanigans allow Erik to separate Rogers from his damn shield and get in some solid hits via the hull of the plane.

Then the both of them go tumbling into the machine housing the cube, knocking the thing out of its casing and prompting a flurry of alarms to start hollering and flashing from the pilot's station. This apparently, is the end of Rogers's patience. In a movement too fluid to be spontaneous, Rogers wrestles an arm around one of Erik's, braces the other across Erik's chest and wrenches his shoulder out of joint. A blow to the weak nerve there and Erik is seeing stars. Head spinning, bones screaming, shaking so fiercely he can't stop Rogers from shoving him out of the way and clambering to the pilot's station to right the plane.

It was _practiced_. That Rogers has obviously considered what to do if he had to fight Erik seriously doesn't bother Erik at all. It is more prudent than Erik expected Rogers to be, but it doesn't hurt—no, what hurts is that Rogers used Erik's imperfect serum against him after months of showering him with concern for the same.

"Stay down," Rogers warns, with a stern, sad look that says he considers Erik the unreasonable one here.

At the moment, Erik couldn't defy Rogers if he tried. Getting up from the floor seems like a task of equal magnitude to parting the Red Sea. He watches Rogers dully, defeated.

The alarms are still shrieking from the pilot's station, and Rogers stands over the heavily damaged machine that was previously drawing power from the cube. "How am I supposed to fix this?" he mutters.

The cube is lying there, unprotected, tilted in the crook between it's canister and the lip of the machine. To Erik the thing practically screams malice, and after witnessing the gradual deterioration of Zola's wits in the company of the cube over the last year, Erik is sure it has some sort of psychological effect. It's the only explanation for why Rogers innocently reaches for it after being warned not to touch the thing by Phillips.

"Rogers, don't touch it!"

—and like always, Erik is too late.

//=//

Erik stares tiredly at the radio, and considers calling Carter. She deserves to know. There won't even be a body for them to bring back to her. He doubts she'd want the shield. She deserves to know—but there aren't enough words in the world to express how sorry Erik is, so he doesn't call her.

He takes the plane down in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was sooo long, but I couldn't split it up.
> 
> Mandatory political note--fuck white supremacy and Nazis.
> 
> So rubbers are the period slang for condoms, which not only were a thing as early as the eighteen hundreds, but were actually actively promoted by various governments as a defense against venereal disease among soldiers. In fact, by the time WW1 rolled around they were standard issue for every soldier and had acquired many handy "non-regulation" uses in the field. (Small portable waterproof stretchy rubber bag? *Highly* useful.) The joke about the Yankee-mediums is a riff on a popular anecdote about the WW2 practice of protecting a gun barrel from debris by slipping a condom over it. Story goes that once military brass got wind of the trick, requests were sent home for ridiculously long condoms (to fit larger guns), and—whether the story has Churchill supplying the Russians or Roosevelt supplying the French or whatever—the punchline is that the condoms are only delivered under the condition that they're marked "British standard small" "Texas medium" etc. 
> 
> Goyim is the Jewish term for non-Jewish folk.
> 
> Sicherheitsdienst refers to the Nazi intelligence agency.
> 
> So I was originally gonna do the role reversal thing by making Captain America an asshole who subscribes to the "my country right or wrong" doctrine, but instead I had to break out the feels. Sorry not sorry. What Steve is here is a situational bad-guy. His goals and beliefs about the world lead him into conflict with the hero of the story but that doesn't mean he's evil. There's a reason the world exists in color, folks. It's because life is not black and white.


	6. History (Is Written by the Victors)

For the second time in his life Erik wakes up in a government facility in New York City with a new face. This is the first thing he notices because, while losing a nose is rather hard to adjust to, suddenly regaining one is slightly more shocking. Pale skin is another shock, as is hair—until the memories and implications of those last minutes in the _Valkyrie_ fully catch up to Erik and he is suddenly much more interested in the deceptively tame hospital room he's in. The radio on the table by the window is playing soft classical music, and though Erik can't quite recall the composer something about it nags at him. There's a breeze playing with the edges of the window valance but no ambient noise from outside. The room is warm but the heat doesn't seem to emanate from the radiator.

He's already forming theories about his confinement—it couldn't be anything else: as far as the Allies are concerned he's just committed treason, and the Axis, well… Erik hopes its the Allies who have him—when the nurse comes in and Erik gets the feeling that whatever is wrong here is wildly past his ability to imagine.

"You're in a recovery room in Berlin."

The nurse's German is far too flawless to be natural …and bizzarely, Erik can't shake the feeling that there's something wrong with the way her shirt rests on her chest. What is going on? Why the charade? The breeze—the nurse—the music—Schoenberg, the music is Schoenberg, Erik notes almost absently, recognizing a riff here and there—and then the jigsaw pieces snap together.

"Where am I really?" Erik demands, in English, subtly cataloging his distance from the door and whether the window would be a better escape option.

Strangely, the woman's English is as flawlessly careful as her German: "I'm afraid I don't understand—"

"Schoenberg, Schoenberg's censored, they haven't had him on the radio in years. This is not Berlin, or Germany, or a recovery room. Now I'm going to ask you again, _Fraulein_ ," Erik sneers the last word, partly to show he's not hoodwinked so easy and partly because, well, his SS officer persona is more intimidating. "Where. Am. I."

//=//

And then Erik is standing in the middle of a street, gazing around dumbfounded like a kid with their first pin-up mag, wondering if everything out here—the cars, the people, the lights, it's a tableau Stark might have invented in a fever dream—is just as fake as the ply-board recovery room. He should be running, he thinks vaguely.

The black-suited agents in their sleek, shiny beetle-like cars surround him and Erik lets one eye-patched agent approach him, at a loss for what else to do. Unlike the others, he's not visibly armed but walks like he's untouchable. "At ease, soldier."

Erik has to stop himself from laughing. His brain is coming up with a thousand unlikely scenarios a second and he hopes none of them are true. His is as far from at ease as it is possible to be.

"Look, I'm sorry about that little show back there, but we thought it best to break it to you slowly."

Erik's gaze flicks towards the people—civilians?—outside the barricade of cars and agents surrounding him. Many of them are flashing lights from flat discs in their hands only to have those discs confiscated by perimeter agents. "Break what?"

"You been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy years."

_(Always too late.)_

Erik's eyes rove the city street around him. Seventy years. The idea of a new _millennium_ is not a concept he can comprehend, so his brain helpfully supplies a more meaningful definition: Carter, Phillips, the Commandos, everyone he knew must be dead. Fucking hell, not just people he knew, but everyone: Churchill, Roosevelt, Sinatra, Hemmingway, Welles, Neitsche, Einstein… _Seventy years._

"Did we win the war?" Erik asks, hypnotized by what must be either massive projector screens or impossibly light television sets mounted onto many of the skyscrapers around him (and damn if these ones didn't _actually scrape the sky_ ).

"Well, that depends on what side you're talking about."

Erik whips around to look at the agent so quickly some of his joints pop. "The Allies. Obviously." Erik's tone is sharp and it sharpens more as the agent gives him only an appraising look in response. Who exactly were these people? "Suppose you tell me who you are and what is going on here."

"My name is Nick Fury, and you, Captain Schmidt, went down in history as the Red Skull, a German double agent who nearly lost the Allies the war."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandatory political note--fuck white supremacy and Nazis.
> 
> Schoenberg is a Jewish composer who fled Germany in the early days of the Nazi Party, who labeled his work "degenerate" and censored him.
> 
> So I was under the impression that the nurse who greets Steve at the end of the movie is Natasha? In which case she speaks both German and English flawlessly but not with the natural feel of her native Russian. Also the thing about her shirt (the whole scene, really) is homage to a massive, well-researched tumblr theory that Fury was purposefully testing Steve with inconsistencies to see if he'd catch them. The ball game is an obvious one, but the evidence that cements the idea that it was not in fact an honest mistake is that in the movie, the period costuming was really well done—right down to the fact that 1940s brassieres made women's chests look very different than the way modern bras make them look. This becomes even more obvious when you put period clothes on a woman (Natasha/the nurse) who is (presumably) wearing a modern bra. The last scene is the only one in the movie where the costumers "messed up" suggesting it was an in-universe mistake rather than a creator mistake. 
> 
> Skyscrapers were in fact a thing by WW2 though they obviously were of smaller stature than modern ones. I also believe the term was generally in use then as well.


End file.
